


What Goes Unsaid

by Canon_Is_Relative, ImpishTubist



Series: Winter's Child [15]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Asexual!Sherlock, Asexuality Issues, Language, M/M, adoption issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-12
Updated: 2012-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-31 01:14:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/338282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canon_Is_Relative/pseuds/Canon_Is_Relative, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Sherlock and John field some difficult questions from their young son, they find that sometimes the most important words are the ones that go unvoiced.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Operates in the “Winter’s Child” ‘verse.
> 
> Disclaimer: We own nothing.
> 
> Beta: ShaindyL

“Daddy?”

“Yes?” Sherlock glanced over his shoulder. He was standing on the sofa, pinning papers from his latest case to the wall - a private client, this time. Lestrade hadn’t needed his services in months, which was irksome, but this case at least proved promising. And distracting.

Cal stood behind him, in the middle of the living room, clutching the stuffed bear Lestrade had given him the day of his birth.

“Where do babies come from?” he asked.

“We’ve had this discussion, Calvin,” Sherlock said, turning back to his work. “I know you remember. They come from a woman’s uterus - er -” he grasped for the words that John would use, banal and imprecise though they were, “ - they come from a mother’s stomach. Tummy.”

“But,” and he heard Calvin shift, hesitating, “I don’t have a mother.”

“And we have been over this as well,” Sherlock said, with more patience than he would generally allow. He disliked repeating himself, but found that with Calvin, it was...tolerable. Not always unwelcome. “Remember what we said about the process of adoption?”

“Yeah,” Calvin mumbled, but clearly this was not satisfactory, for Sherlock heard him shuffle his feet and not leave the room. He knew another question was forthcoming, and mentally scrolled through all the potential ones Cal might still ask him about the situation.

“Why didn’t my mum want me?”

Oh. That wasn’t one he had been expecting. Even though he was only five, Cal still had the ability to surprise him. Fascinating.

Sherlock set aside his files and stepped off the sofa, crossing the room to kneel in front of his tiny son. He cast around, but John’s voice was oddly silent on this matter. He had no idea what his husband would say. They hadn’t anticipated this question which, admittedly, was an unforgivable oversight.

Perhaps this was a situation which called for the truth.

“She was unable to care for you,” he said, “and your papa and I were, at the time, discussing having a child. It was a fortunate situation.”

“But she doesn’t want to see me,” Cal said.

“She -” But Sherlock stopped, at a loss for words - yet another rare experience. He could hear John already in the back of his head - _Don’t you dare tell him that!_ \- but Cal’s question left him very little room for maneuvering. He couldn’t lie, because then he would want to see his mother. But he knew enough to know that the truth would hurt his son - but wouldn’t that be kinder, rather than building his hopes up?

“No,” he said at last. “No, she doesn’t want to see you. I’m sorry.”

He added the last bit as Cal’s face began to crumble, thinking that it was something John would probably say. And then he opened his arms, for no other reason than because he wanted to (which was interesting), and allowed Cal to fall into them and bury his face in his shoulder. The boy didn’t cry, not loudly, but he sniffled quite a bit and Sherlock felt his shoulder grow damp with the child’s tears.

“Your papa and I want you,” he said, grasping at straws.

“It’s not the same,” Calvin muttered into the fabric of his shirt. Sherlock could think of no adequate response, but he held onto Calvin even long after the tears had stopped.

\----

“You’re angry,” Sherlock said later that evening, having disclosed to John his earlier conversation with Calvin. The boy had been despondent for the rest of the afternoon, and grown teary again as John went to put him to bed. But he couldn’t properly articulate what it was that had him distressed, and eventually the exhaustion from his despair carried him off to sleep, leaving John perplexed and wary.

“No,” John said. “At least - not at you. I don’t think I would’ve known what to say either, to be honest. I’m angry that - well, angry that there aren’t any words to make this better for him, because she _didn’t_ want him. She doesn’t want to see him. How do you cover that up? She didn’t want a child; end of story. But how do you tell a five-year-old his own mother wanted nothing to do with him?”

“I don’t understand his _fascination_ with this woman he’s never met,” Sherlock admitted. “She has provided nothing for him, and never bothered to contact him or see him. So why cry over someone you’ve never met?”

“I guess it’s just the idea of it - the idea of a parent not wanting their child. He sees all of his classmates with mothers, and the fact that his is still out there, but with no desire to see him - that hurts. What did he do wrong? That’s...just the natural thought process, I suppose.”

“It’s absurd.”

“Sherlock,” John said gently, “don’t dismiss his feelings so readily. That’s not what he needs from us right now.”

“He has us. And Lestrade,” Sherlock said after a moment of contemplation. “Is that not enough?”

“I don’t think that’s quite the point.” John scrubbed a hand through his hair. “God, I don’t even know where to begin with this one. How could we not have seen this coming?”

“Will he be all right?” Sherlock asked.

“I’m sure he will be,” John muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s not the first child to ever have to go through this. I just - I just don’t know how to _get_ him there. How do we make this right for him, Sherlock?”

Sherlock had no answer.

\----

For the first time in memory, Lestrade heard Sherlock’s familiar tread up the stairs to his floor, his quick gait down the corridor to the door of his flat - and then the sound of a brisk knock on his door. Usually Sherlock was able to sneak into the flat before Lestrade ever even heard him coming, and not once had he ever knocked. Lestrade paused on his way into the kitchen, waiting for Sherlock to merely pick the locks and let himself in. But then there was another sharp rap on the door, and Lestrade opened it to raise an eyebrow at Sherlock.

“Not going to pick my locks this time?”

Sherlock huffed and pushed past him into the flat. “I believe the proper protocol is to invite me inside and offer to take my coat.”

“Since when do you care for proper protocol?” Lestrade muttered good-naturedly. “How ‘bout we compromise and I offer you a towel instead? God, did you _walk_ all the way from Baker Street in this rain? You’re soaked through. And - oi, shoes off! I don’t need you traipsing mud through here.”

Lestrade swore he heard a, “Yes, _dad,_ ” in the disdainful huff of breath that Sherlock let out as he paused on the welcome mat, waiting for Lestrade to track down a towel.

“Here,” he said, tossing a towel at Sherlock’s head. The detective caught it, and began drying his face and hair. “Now, what’s on your mind? Must be pretty bad for you to not even bother to try a bit of breaking and entering.”

“Calvin’s been asking about his mother,” Sherlock said, toeing off his shoes.

“What about her?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, and Lestrade sucked in a breath.

“Oh. Wants to know why she didn’t want him, does he? Christ.”

Lestrade turned and walked into the kitchen; Sherlock followed.

“I...told him the truth. He left me very little choice in the matter,” Sherlock said, hesitantly. “She didn’t want him, Lestrade. I don’t know how I could have avoided telling him that.”

“You couldn’t have,” Lestrade said softly. He set about making a drink. “I don’t suppose I can offer you anything?”

“Tea.”

“Right.” Lestrade went in search of his seldom-used kettle, and once the water was heating said, “You didn’t do anything wrong, Sherlock. It would have been nice to have avoided this question for a while longer, I suppose, but it was naive for us to think he wouldn’t be asking this soon. He’s old enough to ask; he’s not necessarily old enough to understand all the nuances involved. How do you want your tea? The usual way?”

Sherlock nodded. “You’re drinking,” he commented mildly, and Lestrade tensed. He continued mixing his drink, however, and took the time to consider his words.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “That an issue?”

“Would you tell me if it was?”

 _No,_ Lestrade knew, but he nodded instead because he didn’t trust himself not to snap at Sherlock. It was no business of Sherlock’s what he drank and how much - hypocritical, really, especially with the state Sherlock had been in those early days. He was in no position to comment on another’s vice.

But that wasn’t the point, and so Lestrade steered them back to the original line of conversation.

“So, Cal wants to meet his mum.”

“He wants his mother to _want_ him,” Sherlock said. “But you are well aware that she wants nothing to do with him. And John - _we_ fear that there is no way to make this right for him. How can we make him understand that her feelings have no bearing on his worth as a person, and that it isn’t any fault of his that she doesn’t want him?”

“God, I don’t know, Sherlock,” Lestrade sighed, and then backtracked as he saw Sherlock’s face fall a fraction. “We’ll figure it out; don’t worry. I suppose - well, I suppose you just need to keep reinforcing the fact that he is very much loved. And answer all of his questions as honestly as you can - he won’t respect you for telling him lies, if he finds out as he grows older. Then again, be gentle with him. Don’t sugarcoat, but don’t be needlessly harsh. I know none of this is very concrete, and you hate that, but children are unpredictable. There’s only so much you can prepare for.”

“I’m discovering that,” Sherlock said dryly, and accepted the cup of tea that Lestrade offered him.

“Have you ever considered telling him about your father?” Lestrade asked as he returned to his own drink. Sherlock pursed his lips.

“He will not know about my father,” Sherlock said firmly.

“Sherlock...that might not be wise,” Lestrade said.

“He has no need to know about my relatives,” Sherlock snapped. “The knowledge will not be beneficial to him.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Look what good it did _me_ ,” Sherlock said harshly. Lestrade drew a deep breath through his nose.

“I only mention this,” he said finally, “because you have experience with a parent...with a parent not wanting anything to do with you.”

“Not a biological one.” Sherlock’s lip curled. “And that in itself makes no sense, Lestrade. I can understand a non-biological parent not liking a child, but a biological one is simply _irrational._ ”

“It’s all irrational, don’t you think?”

“But it makes sense, Lestrade. I know you dislike this line of thought, but it is _science._ She _should_ want him, because he is carrying on her genes. She should feel the impulse to protect that DNA at all costs, so that it may be passed on.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it, Sherlock,” Lestrade said harshly. “It’s a fiction you’ve built around your life to explain your father’s behaviour, and it doesn’t hold up. She doesn’t _want_ him; she’s not a slave to her genes. None of us are. And it might help Cal to realize that you also have a parent who didn’t necessarily want you, and yet - you’re fine. He’s fine. There’s nothing wrong with either of you.”

Sherlock said nothing, but shook his head and busied himself with drinking his tea.

“Well, at least take it under advisement,” Lestrade said with a sigh.

\----

Sherlock relayed his conversation with Lestrade to John, who also was faintly disapproving of Sherlock’s decision not to discuss his own father with Calvin. But he vowed to not breathe a word to the child, for which Sherlock appeared grateful. Cal, with the attention span indicative of his age group, seemingly lost interest in pursuing the topic and did not mention his mother again. John knew that he hadn’t forgotten - that wasn’t something, he felt, that a child _could_ forget - and it might have just been his imagination but it seemed to him that Calvin’s movements were lethargic over the next few days; his enthusiasm, a bit damp.

But John soon became convinced that children possessed some form of telepathy - he would have to ask his mother about it - that allowed them to pursue the one topic of conversation that their parents wished to avoid.

“How come I’ve never met my grandpa?” Calvin asked one night as he was sitting in the living room with Sherlock.

Sherlock didn’t look up from his book. “You did, but he died when you were two. You would not remember him, but we have told you about him.”

“No, I know about _that_ grandpa. I mean _your_ dad.”

John was sitting in the kitchen, updating his blog, but his gaze flicked to Sherlock as soon as Calvin’s question left his lips. The boy wouldn’t be able to tell, but the question immediately had Sherlock on edge. His mouth tightened at the corners and his jaw set, determined not to show his son that the subject bothered him.

“He’s dead as well,” Sherlock said calmly. Calvin, sitting on the floor with a coloring book open before him, looked over at his father in surprise.

“No, he’s not.”

Sherlock shot him an indulgent smile from the sofa. “I believe I would know if my own father were alive, wouldn’t I?”

“But Uncle Mycroft said that he was.” Calvin frowned. John let out a hiss of breath, eyes going wide as Sherlock looked over at him in equal surprise.

John cleared his throat, trying to buy Sherlock some time to gather himself. “What - uh - what exactly did Uncle Mycroft tell you?”

Cal looked over at him, face wide with curiosity. “He said that there’s another grandpa out there who would like to meet me, only daddy likes to pretend he doesn’t exist.”

 _That bastard._ John felt rage flare, white and hot, in his gut, and struggled to keep his face neutral. “Well, Uncle Mycroft is - he must have been referring to someone else. Are you _sure_ he said ‘grandfather’?”

“Yeah, papa. He showed me a picture an’ everything.”

“When?” John demanded, and it came out harsher than he had intended.

“When he picked me up from school yesterday.”

John’s eyes flicked to Sherlock, who still hadn’t moved. He cast around for an explanation that would still be keeping with Sherlock’s wishes while at the same time satisfying Calvin’s curiosity.

“Well, bud, I’m sure that Uncle Mycroft was simply mistaken -”

“No, John,” Sherlock said finally, removing his reading glasses and pocketing them. He looked resigned, as though he had always known that this conversation was inevitable. John ached for him. “It’s all right. Calvin, come here.”

John lifted an eyebrow in surprise, wondering what it was exactly that Sherlock had in mind. But he said nothing, and watched as Calvin clambered up on the sofa beside his father.

“Do you remember our discussion about your mother?”

Calvin nodded hesitantly.

“The situation with my father is complicated,” Sherlock said finally. “It...has been easier for me to tell you that he is no longer alive. But I believe you are old enough to know - that isn’t the truth. But I have no idea where he is, and I feel that is best.”

“Uncle Mycroft could find him for you,” Cal suggested softly. Sherlock’s smile was sad.

“I have no doubt of that. But I don’t _want_ him found. He...wasn’t a nice man. He found my existence to be something he regretted.”

"'Re- re-gret-ted'?"

“It means –” Sherlock ground to a halt, his jaw working noiselessly for several seconds. John’s stomach turned to stone as he watched Sherlock struggle to verbalize what he had always known but seldom – perhaps never – admitted out loud. "He...he didn't want me."

Something pricked behind John’s eyes at Sherlock’s raw voice, and he had to blink several times before the feeling faded. When he came back to their conversation again, Calvin’s face was screwed up in concentration and Sherlock – Sherlock looked devastated, his jaw tight and mouth pulled into a thin line, but he managed a quick smile when Calvin looked up at him again.

“Just like my mum didn’t want me.”

“The situations are similar.”

“But.” Cal chewed on his bottom lip. “Everyone at school has a grandpa. I want one, too. It looks nice.”

Sherlock opened his arm in invitation; Calvin settled against his side.

“What do you suppose,” he said finally, “the definition of ‘grandfather’ is?”

“My dad’s dad,” Calvin answered promptly. Sherlock nodded solemnly.

“And what would happen if I told you that Lest - that your Uncle Greg is the closest thing to a father I have ever known?”

Calvin blinked up at him in surprise, and then furrowed his brow. “He’s my _grandpa_?” He scrunched his nose, looking thoroughly displeased by the idea. “That’s _weird,_ dad.”

Sherlock gave an uncharacteristically gentle smile and smoothed down the boy’s hair absently. “He fulfills many different roles for us, and he cares for you. Deeply.”

“Just don’t go around calling him _grandpa,_ or it’ll be dad’s head on a platter,” John added from the kitchen, more for Sherlock’s benefit than Cal's. His husband smirked at him over Calvin’s head.

“I still want my mum,” Calvin whispered plaintively. Sherlock squeezed him against his side.

“Your mother,” he said softly, “thought it would be best if we raised you. She...wanted you to be happy, and knew she couldn’t give you what you needed. And she felt it would be best not to see you, just as my father... _won’t_ see me.”

“But there’s nothing wrong with you,” John put in from his vantage point in the kitchen. “Just like there’s nothing wrong with dad. And we love you.”

Calvin sniffed. Sherlock wrapped him into a loose hug, burying his face in the blonde hair and adding, “Always, Cal.”

 

  


* * *

“Is this Jack?”

Sherlock blinked and looked up. “Sorry?”

John held out a photograph Calvin had handed him earlier in the day. The child had been going through Sherlock’s bookshelf, entertaining himself with the weight of the heavy tomes and the illustrations in the apiology texts. He had found the photograph in one of those books, tucked between illustrations of _Apis mellifera_ and _Apismellifera scutellata._ “This. Is it Jack?”

The photograph was well-worn but not old, holding the creases and lines indicative of one that has been carried around in a wallet for some time. It had been a candid photo, the boy in it laughing and reaching for something just beyond the camera’s view. His dark locks lay tumbled across his forehead and his smile was painfully familiar; John felt his heart catch, and he hadn’t even known the child.

_Oh, Greg..._

Sherlock looked at John for a long moment, as though he were considering whether his answer would be worth the lie. He finally settled for asking, “Where did you find that?”

“I didn’t, actually. Cal did, in one of your books.” John ran his fingers lightly over the dated photo, realizing that that was the closest thing to a _yes_ that he was going to get. He had assumed as much anyway, but he’d only seen a picture of Jack once and that had been before Calvin’s birth. “How old is he, here?”

“Three,” Sherlock said. “It was shortly before the diagnosis.”

“Did Greg give this to you?”

“No.” Sherlock paused to scribble something in his notebook. “He is aware that I have it, though, before you scold me that it’s improper to nick photographs of someone’s dead child.”

“I wasn’t - never mind.” John sighed. “He was a beautiful child. Looks just like his dad, actually. Except for the eyes - he get those from his mother?”

“I can’t say I spent a good amount of time looking into the eyes of Lestrade’s wife, John,” Sherlock said, the eye roll more than evident in his voice. He stepped back from the microscope, twirling a pen through restless fingers - a habit he had picked up after giving up cigarettes. He finally added, “He inherited his father’s...kindness, as well.”

John walked over to him and stood behind him, slipping his arms around the slim waist and propping his chin on the bony shoulder. Sherlock’s hands came up to cover his, and he leaned into the embrace. A moment later, John felt the photograph being pulled lightly from his grip.

“I find that...I still miss him,” Sherlock said finally. “Is that odd, John? He’s been gone for more years than I knew him.”

“No,” John whispered, heart cracking a bit. “No, that’s not odd at all, love. That’s very, very normal.”

Calvin bounded into the room moments later. The five-year-old tugged out a hard wooden chair and climbed onto it, a toy dinosaur in his hand, and regarded his parents cheerfully.

“Did you solve the mystery?” he asked, excited.

“Mystery?” John asked, lifting an eyebrow at him as he extracted himself from Sherlock.

“The boy in the picture! The one from daddy’s book.” Calvin said, pointing at the picture that Sherlock still had clutched in his hand.

John shot Sherlock a glance. _Is he ready for this?_

The eyes that met his were hesitant, and when Sherlock looked back down at the photograph John was forced to revise his silent question - was _Sherlock_ ready for this?

“Actually, daddy’s...still working on it. I’m sure we’ll figure it out soon, though.” John ruffled Calvin’s hair. “Why don’t you go and wash up? Dinner’s going to be ready soon.”

Calvin hurried readily from the room, spurred on by the thought of food, and John turned to Sherlock.

“What do we tell him?”

Sherlock walked out into the living room, removed the apiology tome, and put Jack’s picture back between pages 342 and 343. His fingers drifted over the photograph for a moment before he closed the book and put it back on the shelf.

“We’ll discuss it after dinner,” he said decisively.

\----

“Cal, come sit on the sofa with us,” John said, giving the boy a hand up. He settled between both his parents and looked expectantly at John. “Do you remember that picture you found this afternoon? Well, daddy actually _does_ know who that little boy was. And we think you are old enough to know who he is, too.”

Sherlock pressed his fingers to Calvin’s wrist, grabbing the boy’s attention, and then said, “Lest - your Uncle Greg used to have a son, Calvin. Like you. And he was married, like I am to your papa. He had a family.”

“He doesn’t have a son,” Calvin said, a small line appearing between his brows.

“Not anymore,” Sherlock said.

“His son got very sick,” John added. “He had to go into the hospital, it was so bad. And he died, Calvin. He didn’t get better. Do you - do you know what that means?”

“Like Pete’s grandma,” Calvin said, still frowning. “She got old and went to sleep, and Pete said she never woke up. She couldn’t come back.”

“Yeah,” John said quietly. “Yeah, that’s right.”

“But he wasn’t old,” Calvin protested.

“Sometimes you aren’t old when you die,” Sherlock put in. “It doesn’t only happen when someone is old. It can happen at any time.”

“So...I could die?” Calvin said.

“You will die,” Sherlock pointed out, and John winced.

“No, no, Calvin, he doesn’t mean it like that,” John said hastily, shooting an alarmed look at Sherlock over Calvin’s head. Sherlock grimaced, recognizing that his words had been imprecise. “It...yes, everybody dies. Everyone...everyone will grow old someday, and eventually they will die. But that won’t happen to you for a long, long time. Many, many years from now.”

“But why?”

“Because your body’s cells are incapable of dividing an infinite number of times,” Sherlock said automatically, and at John’s look he rephrased. “Because you are not...built to live forever. No one is. Sometimes we get sick, and doctors can’t make us better. Or sometimes we grow old, and then we die naturally.”

“Do you understand?” John jumped in.

“Sorta,” Calvin said. “But what happens after?”

John winced. He knew this question would be coming, but hadn’t been sure how to address it.

“We don’t know,” he said diplomatically before Sherlock could answer. His husband closed his mouth and nodded, deferring to John’s explanation. “Perhaps nothing. It...isn’t possible to come back, at least. It’s forever.”

“So Uncle Greg will never see his son again,” Sherlock added softly. “But there are other ways we have found to keep him alive. In memories.”

He ran a finger under Calvin’s chin. “In you. You were named after Uncle Greg’s son. His name was Jack.”

“That’s my middle name,” Calvin said automatically, and Sherlock nodded.

“Yes. Your uncle gave us his name to use on you. Do you see?”

Calvin nodded. “Yeah.”

John ran a hand through Calvin’s hair. He doubted that Calvin had grasped everything they had said, but it at least opened the door for future conversations. “Well, if you have any questions, you can always ask us. Or Uncle Greg. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good.” John kissed the top of his head. “Right, go play. You’ve got a couple more hours until bedtime.”

Calvin scurried off.

“You all right?” John asked Sherlock softly. His husband was abnormally still, staring after Calvin.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock said truthfully. “It...doesn’t feel as though he understands.”

“He will, someday. It’s a start. He’s only five - he can’t be expected to grasp everything yet.” John scooted closer to Sherlock on the sofa.

Sherlock’s face turned grave. “Have we done the right thing by telling him?”

“Yeah,” John said, leaning forward to rest his forehead on Sherlock’s chin. “You should probably give Greg a head’s up, though. Let him know that we’ve spoken to Calvin, and he may be getting questions. Just so he’s prepared.”

He felt Sherlock open his mouth to reply, but then an excited shout of, “Dad!” cut through the peace of the kitchen.

“Go on,” John said, laughing quietly. “This can wait.”

Sherlock pressed his lips to John’s forehead, and John felt the curve of his smile before he broke away and went to see to their son.


	2. Chapter 2

"Daddy?"

  
"Yes?"

  
Sherlock, absorbed in the microscopic world before his eyes, didn't realize for several long minutes that Calvin hadn't responded but was still standing there, silent. He blinked and straightened, turning away from his microscope. He looked at Calvin, standing in the doorway to the kitchen, shifting his weight from foot to foot, looking up at him through his shaggy hair.

  
"Are you busy?"

  
"Yes." Sherlock blinked again, hearing John's aggrieved sigh in the back of his head, and groped for words John would use. "But not too busy for you."

  
That seemed to be correct--Calvin smiled down at his toes and shuffled another step into the kitchen.

  
Sherlock watched him closely, but the five-year-old's face remained downturned and he was unable to form any conclusions about what their forthcoming discussion would be about. Sherlock rested his palms on his thighs and waited.

  
"When I grow up," Cal started suddenly, picking at a hole in his favourite dinosaur t-shirt, "will I have to marry a boy?"

  
Sherlock frowned. "You won't _have_ to marry anyone."

  
"Oh. Not ever?"

  
"Not if you don't want to."

  
"So I don't have to marry a boy?"

  
"No."

  
"Oh. Okay."

  
Calvin turned and scampered out of the kitchen, leaving Sherlock looking after him, entirely nonplussed.   
\----   
"How's my godson?" Lestrade asked after a short stretch of silence. They were on the roof, smoking and watching the sun set. Well - he was smoking and Sherlock was concentrating on not reaching for a cigarette.   
  
"Fine. He's fine." Sherlock tucked his hands into his pockets and continued to gaze ahead, though when Lestrade glanced at him he saw a small crease drawn between his brows. "He asked me yesterday if he would have to get married when he grew up."

  
Lestrade snorted. "Yep. He's the age for it. Kids are _fascinated_ by mummy and daddy's...er...y'know, whatever the arrangement is." He waved his hand in apology for the gendered slip. Sherlock shrugged it off.

  
Lestrade took a drag and said, before he talked himself out of it, "Jack told me once that he was going to grow up and marry mummy. He thought that was just...the way of it. I did, so he would too."

  
"Ah," Sherlock said, eyes going faraway as comprehension dawned.

  
"What?"

  
"That's what he was asking. He said, 'Will I have to marry a boy.' He's wondering if he will form a monogamous relationship with a man, since I did. We did."

  
"Mm," Lestrade hummed, pursing his lips to keep from laughing, dropping the cigarette and grinding it out with his toe. "That'll be a fun conversation, eh?"

  
"What will?"

  
"Explaining to him how he might be gay, straight, or whatever other labels we've come up with by then, but it's got nothing to do with you and John."

  
Sherlock cocked his head at Lestrade, considering. "Interesting."

  
"Hm?" Sherlock's eyes were sparkling and Lestrade shook his head, putting on his Serious Face. "No way, Sherlock. Do I have to remind you _again_ that your child is not an experiment?"

  
"Oh, really, Lestrade--"

  
"I'm serious. Whatever it is you're thinking, I promise you it's not a good idea."

  
Sherlock huffed but said nothing more.

  
"And John will agree with me."

  
Sherlock glared at him.

  
\-------

  
Calvin sat on the sofa, arms and legs crossed, a magnificent scowl on his face. John was doing his best not to react to it, going about the business of getting ready to leave for the evening. Whatever Mrs Hudson was cooking downstairs for their dinner smelled amazing, and a part of him wanted very much just to call it off and stay home.

  
When he sat down in his chair to pull on his shoes, Calvin said loudly, "I can't wait til _I_ have kids cos I'm _never_ gonna leave them home alone just to go watch some stupid play."

  
John opened his mouth to protest but Sherlock was suddenly there, knotting his scarf around his neck, saying coolly, "It's not a play, it's the opera. You're not alone, you're with Mrs Hudson. And of course you will."

  
"Will not!"

  
"Well, you may be right, you may not care for the opera. But you certainly will leave your potential children every now and then to spend time alone with your potential spouse."

  
"Will _not_! Ew, _dad!_ Don't be gross!"

  
Sherlock had put his arm around John's waist and pulled him close to drop a kiss on his lips.

  
John, smiling slightly, looked up at Sherlock. "Have you been reading some new parenting book or something?"

  
Sherlock looked miffed. "Of course not. Just encouraging his common sense. Is it right for him to think that his parents only have a relationship with him and not with each other?"

  
"Hm. I hadn't thought of it that way..."

  
"Not surprising," Sherlock said, affection spilling into his voice.

  
"You git," John said, smiling, reaching up to touch his husband's cheek.

  
"I'm _never_ getting married," Calvin shrilled from the couch, trying to recenter their attention on him, covering his eyes to block out the scene in front of him. "Kissing is _gross_."

  
John gave Sherlock a grin and nodded towards him, and Sherlock followed his lead, moving quietly to the couch, dropping down on either side of him, two sets of arms pinning the suddenly-shrieking five-year-old in place as two pairs of lips planted kisses on his cheeks.

  
\---

  
"Daddy?"

  
"Calvin."

  
"What will happen to me when you and Papa don't live together anymore?"

  
Sherlock looked up at him, his initial amusement at the unexpected question swiftly vanishing as he saw Calvin watching him sombrely, a green crayon clenched tightly in his little fist.

  
"I expect your papa and I will always live together, Calvin. Why do you ask?"

  
Calvin fiddled with the corner of his colouring book. "Mikey's mum and daddy don't live together anymore and he doesn't get to see his daddy every day, and Pete says they're not married and he says you and Papa aren't married either because I don't have a mummy and he says people don't live together if they're not married and I don't want to not see you every day because then when Papa isn't home you can't read to me."

  
Sherlock watched Calvin grow more fearful as he spoke until he ran out of breath, as though each word made the awful childish image of divorce more real to him. Mikey was a friend Sherlock didn’t know, but Pete was familiar, one of Calvin's friends from school and, if Sherlock recalled correctly (which he did), not one that he himself was particularly fond of. But then, he wasn't generally fond of any children who weren't Calvin.

  
"Come here, Cal," Sherlock said softly when he fell silent, opening his arms to the boy. Calvin settled readily onto his lap, still clutching his colouring book and crayon. Sherlock pressed his lips to his son's shaggy head, thinking. He'd found with Calvin that, young as he was, he was best able to process new information by focusing on one discrete piece at a time, and that it was best to let the child prioritize for himself. "What are you most scared of?"

  
Calvin surprised him then with an indignant huff. "I'm not _scared_ , daddy!"

  
"Ah. What, ah, what is _bothering_ you, then?"

  
Calvin sighed and rested his head against Sherlock's chest. "I don't want you to leave me and Papa."

  
Sherlock blinked, feeling an uncomfortable tightness in his chest. So, Calvin had decided that if either of his fathers was going to abandon him, it would be Sherlock. He wrapped his arms around Calvin. "I am not going to leave you. I am not going to leave your papa. I'm not going anywhere, Cal. Your friend is ill-informed. It is perfectly possible for two people of the same sex or gender to enter into a legally binding contract, like marriage."

  
“Daddy, you keep using big words,” Calvin complained. “You _sound_ like a Vulcan!”

  
Sherlock grumbled inwardly. He would never understand John’s fascination with science fiction shows, nor his determination to expose Calvin to every one in existence and his insistence on drawing parallels between his husband and various alien species.

  
“It is quite possible," he said slowly, choosing his words carefully, "for two people to be married even if one of them is not a mummy. Calvin, your papa and I are very much married. Don’t allow your friends to persuade you otherwise.”

  
When Calvin just looked at him, he held up his hand, showing Calvin his ring, knowing that children liked tangible proof. “See?”

  
Calvin took Sherlock's hand between both of his, running his fingers over the worn silver ring. "Oh. Why did you marry Papa, then? Why not a girl? Like my mum?”

  
_ Hell _ . This was going to be more in-depth than he had planned for.

  
“Calvin, look at me,” he commanded, and the boy did so. “Many of the people you meet in life will be attracted to - and want to form permanent bonds with - people of the opposite sex. Females - women - _girls_ will want to marry boys, and boys will want to marry girls.”

  
_ How _ could John stand this, using such imprecise terms when talking to Calvin? It was maddening.

  
“But not papa.”

  
“That’s not entirely correct. Your papa would have formed an attachment to someone of either gender. He just happened to choose me. He’s _bisexual_. So’s your Uncle Greg.”

  
“Uncle Greg married a girl.”

  
Sherlock gave a brisk nod. “And right now he’s dating a man - remember?”

  
“So you and papa are married because you like boys?”

  
Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, and almost did so before his brain had a chance to catch up with his automatic response to that particular question. It made quick note of the fact that the person asking was five years old (not an adult) and his son (not a stranger or Yarder). He also took note of the fact that John would, based on prior experience, _kill him_ for repeating to his son what he told others. One had to phrase one’s sentences differently depending on the audience; Sherlock had learned that from John as well.

  
It wouldn’t do to outline to Calvin exactly what it was his parents did in the bedroom - Sherlock was well aware of that. It _was_ sex, to John at least, and to Sherlock it was cataloguing. John was his, wholly and completely, and that meant claiming every inch of him. It meant acquainting and reacquainting himself with John’s body, with every response to his touch and every gasp elicited by his careful tongue. It meant that John wasn’t to reciprocate Sherlock’s ministrations. It meant, for John, losing himself to the fantasy that Sherlock wanted and _needed_ him sexually, and it worked for them.

  
But that was something they couldn’t explain properly to anyone, and it wasn’t something that Calvin could grasp. Perhaps someday he would understand the complexities of his parents’ relationship, though it was doubtful. More and more of John stood out in Calvin every day, and Sherlock knew that his son stood a very good chance of turning out - for lack of better word - _normal_.

And even John didn’t quite understand what it was to live in Sherlock’s head, though he had admittedly come the closest of anyone. It was likely Calvin would never understand, either - not completely.

  
Sherlock found that this was an intolerable thought, to be alienated from his only child.

  
“Dad?”

  
Sherlock snapped out of his thoughts and answered, “I’m...fond of your papa. That’s why I married him. That’s why...that’s why it works. Do you remember the conversation we had last week, when you asked me if you would have to marry a boy when you grew up?"

  
Calvin shrugged, then nodded.

  
"What I told you then is true - you don't have to marry anyone if you don't want to. But it's entirely possible that you will want to, someday, and when you do you should know that your preference as to your partner has nothing to do with me or papa."

He stopped when he perceived that Calvin's eyes were, as John would put it, glazing over. He cleared his throat, took a long, deep breath, and said, as patiently as he was able, "Just because I married a man - a _boy_ , your papa -  and not a girl, like your mum, does not mean that you will also have to marry a boy. Who you marry, or if you marry at all, will depend entirely on who you fall in love with. Many people…feel emotionally attached to someone, or many people, because they feel…attraction. For most people, that attraction is physical. In their body. That will all happen to you when you grow up - you will begin to feel attraction for other people, and that may determine if you prefer to be in a relationship with - marry - a man or a woman. Or it is possible that you would be equally happy with either sex, like your papa, or with neither…like me."

  
Calvin's wide eyes and blank face spoke volumes - he did not understand.

  
Sherlock sighed and smoothed Cal's hair down over his forehead. "I married your papa because we love each other, and we decided we wanted to be together for the rest of our lives. He loves me, and I love him.”

  
“Like you love me?” Calvin asked cautiously.

  
“Not precisely,” Sherlock said. “I love you, yes. Not in the same way that I do your papa.”

  
“You love him more?”

  
“I did not say _that_ , either,” Sherlock sighed, quickly finding the conversation tiresome and Calvin’s inability to grasp - or accept - that his parents loved one another and him at the same time irritating. Not to mention the sudden fascination with marriages and attachments, which Sherlock knew would lead, someday soon, to questions about sex.

  
"So you love me more?"

  
Sherlock looked at Calvin's guarded face, and found he could not find an emotion to connect to this experience. He felt…bleak. Blank. He had no idea how to make this right for his son, and so he found himself borrowing John’s words, as he had none of his own: “I love you," John had said, leaning over Cal's bed one night when the boy had woken screaming from a nightmare, "with everything that makes me who I am. You are everything to me."

  
Calvin seemed satisfied with the response - he kissed his father wetly on the cheek and turned the page in his colouring book.

Was this how it was to be, for the rest of Calvin’s childhood? Were these the questions he would have to field from his son - questions about the one side of humanity that was closed to him, through no choice of his own? The one driving force that motivated ninety-nine percent of the population, and which he couldn’t grasp the importance of?

  
Something black and ugly coiled in Sherlock’s stomach, reaching up through his chest and grasping his heart as well so that it started and sputtered. He was wholly inadequate for this; how could he even begin to prepare Calvin for life as a functional human being when he was barely one himself?

  
He was on the outside looking in, and Calvin deserved better. They had been fooling themselves, he and John both, to think that he was capable of a task such as this.

  
Calvin had scooted out of his lap by the time Sherlock came back to himself, his interest in the conversation apparently satisfied - at least, for now. Sherlock wordlessly leaned over to press his lips to Calvin’s forehead, and then got to shaky feet and left the room.

  
\---

  
Sherlock sat cross-legged on the duvet, watching John undress for bed. It was a warm night after a hot day and Sherlock had just come from the shower, his damp hair still dripping down his back and into the towel wrapped around his waist. John looked tired. He'd been at the surgery all day and was late coming home. Calvin and Sherlock had eaten without him, and Cal was quiet in his room by the time John came in.

  
"Calvin and I had an interesting conversation today," Sherlock said into the soft silence surrounding them.

  
"Oh?" John's tone was heavy; trying to be interested.

  
Ah. Something Not Good had happened on his watch. Death, most likely. Sherlock sat quietly and waited for John to come to him. He did, after a minute; stripped down to his pants he lay down stiffly on the bed, smelling of sweat and antiseptic. Sherlock carded his fingers gently through the sweat-damp hair over his forehead. Usually he vaguely disliked touching John when he was sweaty but tonight he welcomed it - the feel of John so solid, so real, so _normal_ beneath his hands. It grounded him.

  
John closed his eyes and murmured, "What'd you talk about?"

  
Sherlock inhaled slowly, recalling the conversation. He would not delete it, because it concerned Calvin, but the reminder that his own son would someday find him as alien as Sherlock himself found the rest of the population - that pained him more than he cared to admit. He had never before minded what others thought and, admittedly, even revelled in his strangeness.

  
But the thought that Calvin wouldn’t understand him - and that he wouldn’t ever completely understand his own son - well, that was maddening.

  
It was highly unfair.

  
_ Where did I go wrong, to deserve this fate? _

  
"Calvin has been wondering if he will have to follow your example to prefer male sexual partners, when he's older."

  
John made a sound like he'd been punched in the stomach and sat up so quickly Sherlock could see the blood draining from his face. "What?"

  
Sherlock tried to reassure him, feeling ill-equipped to do so; normally it was John telling him that whatever new event they were facing was _perfectly normal_. "Lestrade assures me that he's at the age when--"

  
"You talked to Lestrade about this?"

  
Sherlock blinked. "Several days ago Calvin asked me a question and I failed to understand its significance. Lestrade explained it to me, and this evening I reopened the subject with Cal."

  
"What did he ask you?"

  
"If he would have to marry a boy when he grew up."

  
"And what did you tell him?"

  
"I told him he didn't have to marry anybody, unless he wanted to. Lestrade--"

  
"Is there any special reason you went to Lestrade with this and not me? _Days_ ago? Why didn't you tell me?"

  
"Calm down, John," Sherlock snapped. "I didn't _go to_ Lestrade with anything. We were at the Yard and he asked how Calvin was. I told him about our conversation. He interpreted it for me. He says that at this age children become fascinated with their parents' relationship and where they might fit in to it. Lestrade told me that Jack once told him that he was going to grow up and marry his mother, because that's what Lestrade had done. I realized that was what Cal was asking; is he predestined to marry a man because that's what we--his only familial role models--did."

  
John hadn't quite managed to shut his mouth through Sherlock's explanation, and licked his lips when he fell silent, his voice coming out oddly strained. "So what did you say to Calvin tonight?"   
  
Sherlock folded his hands in his lap and cocked his head, looking over John's shoulder, recalling. "I explained that the choices and genetic predispositions of his parents will in no way affect his own free will or ability to make the same or different choices, nor will they affect his inherent preferences. I attempted to help him understand that all relationships are individual and unique to those two or more peoples' preferences and inclinations, and while our family might resemble others that he sees in his day-to-day life, the relationship between us, between you and me, is not what might commonly be assumed by an outsider--"

  
John groaned and dropped his head into his hands. Sherlock stopped talking abruptly.

  
"Tell me you didn't try to explain sexuality to our five-year-old."

  
Sherlock's silence was apparently, and rightly, taken as confirmation.

  
"Dammit, Sherlock…this is…you should have…we should have talked this over, first. This isn't a one-day, one-dad deal, this is…trying to make a kid understand this is--"

  
"He's of above average intelligence," Sherlock bristled on Calvin's behalf. "And far more capable than you like to give him credit for. Just because he's a child doesn't mean he doesn't comprehend. Have you ever considered that maybe that's why most children are so stupid, because nothing's expected of them?"

  
"No," John snapped, "I hadn't, because it's not true. Children, Sherlock, are not miniature adults in cute clothes. Their brains are literally growing and changing every day and they are learning and processing things for the first time with no frame of reference for most of the data they take in. The way you present new information to kids is not arbitrary, it's _important_. And that's not even what we're talking about, we're talking about you making a pretty damn huge parenting decision without any reference to me or even letting me know what was going on! That's not ok, that's _very_ not ok, Sherlock."

  
“He was asking, John,” Sherlock said, and in the silence following John’s outburst his words felt brittle; fragile shards of sound that would not hold up to John's anger.  “I didn't want to lie to him, or tell him I would discuss it later in the hopes that he would forget. I consulted Lestrade; when it came up again, you weren’t home. I hadn’t intended to _purposefully_ discuss it without you here. I - he was asking.”

  
John stared at him, his jaw set in a hard line and his shoulders stiff with tension. And then he appeared to shrink, deflating as the fight left his limbs and his anger melted away.

  
“Christ,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “I - God, yeah, you’re right. I mean, I would have preferred to discuss this with him - with _you_ \- but…well, sounds like you hit all the important points with him.”

  
Sherlock blinked. “You believe so?”

  
“Of course, you daft man.” John attempted a shadow of a smile.  "And probably without nearly so much blushing and stuttering as I would have."

  
Sherlock looked away, eyes lighting on his laptop. He pulled it towards himself reflexively, hiding behind it, staring at the blank screen.

  
"Wonder what’s got him so curious about it all of a sudden,” John murmured as he crawled into bed and turned out his light. Sherlock began to peck at his laptop, but turned it so that the glare from the screen was not in John’s face. “I suppose he must just be at that age where he’s becoming more aware of the world around him. Though I still think it’s a little young to be asking about sex; hopefully he doesn’t bring _that_ up for another few years. ”

  
Sherlock didn't respond, but his hands went still against the keyboard.

  
John reached for Sherlock’s knee. “You’re quiet.”

  
Sherlock didn't move. “I’m always quiet.”

  
"Are you all right?"

  
"Of course."

  
"Are you sure…yeah, sorry." John cut himself off at Sherlock's look, squeezing his knee before settling back against his pillow. “You did well, you know. I do mean that. I always wonder if we’re going about this the right way, if we’re telling him the right things or if we’re just confusing him even more. But we’re managing, yeah? Doing well.”

  
“You are, at least.”

  
“Don’t say that,” John scolded softly. “You’re doing a great job. And we’re in this together.”

  
Perhaps, Sherlock mused as John tugged on his arm and he acquiesced to a quick kiss. But even in this family they were building, he was still very alone.


End file.
